by Tamara Leigh
“Proof enough?” he asked.
She jerked her chin.
“Good. Collect your belongings quickly so we may reach Stern Castle well before the supper hour—all your belongings. You will not return here.” His eyes shifted to the abbess. “As told, she is willing.”
Feeling the woman’s anger, Aelfled looked to her. Nose no longer set on high, Mary Sarah glared at the man.
“Have we met, Abbess?” he asked.
She swung aside, traversed the walk, and led the way to the dormitory. At the steps, she turned to Aelfled. “I am sorry I cannot aid you.”
“Cyr D’Argent has my grandmother, and though I do not believe he will harm her, I must go to her.”
“I shall send word to Lady Hawisa of what has transpired.”
Would she believe Aelfled innocent of further betrayal? Did it matter? “I thank you.”
As Aelfled stepped past her, the abbess said, “Speak not of the dagger found in the passage.”
Aelfled inclined her head and, ignoring the curious looks cast upon her by nuns and those of the convent, entered the dormitory.
It did not take long to gather her possessions, so few were they. The delay was in determining what to do with what she had long hidden beneath her cot—another D’Argent dagger and Cyr’s missive to Campagnon intercepted by Isa.
She shifted the brazier coals, pushed the missive to the bottom, and covered it over. The next time the brazier was lit to warm the cell, all evidence of Isa’s visit to Lillefarne would be destroyed.
Aelfled bundled the dagger and placed it at the bottom of her pack. Cyr knew she had harbored rebels, so he could hardly think worse of her that she possessed what had belonged to his uncle. Since Hugh D’Argent’s wife was at Stern, Aelfled would give it to her as soon as she found an opportunity to do so in the absence of her son. Though she thought it possible the lady would find solace in its return, she did not believe a warrior as sentimental. More likely, it would anger him.
Only when Aelfled donned her mantle did she realize she yet wore her blood-stained gown. She yearned to change into her second gown, but she had kept Cyr’s man waiting long enough.
She departed the dormitory and saw the abbess awaited her alongside the smaller door set in a larger one. The woman surprised Aelfled with a quick embrace and whispered in her ear, “You are Saxon. Never forget it. Ever embrace it.”
As Aelfled recovered breath over words strikingly similar to Isa’s, the abbess drew back and unbarred the door. “God be with you, Child.”
Aelfled ducked beneath the low lintel and stepped out onto moist ground. As she lifted her eyes to the man who awaited her, the door closed and bar dropped.
“I began to think you had no care for your grandmother,” he said, then to the chevalier beside him, “Take her up before you.”
The man dismounted and motioned her forward, but when he set hands on Aelfled’s waist to lift her atop his destrier, the one who commanded him said, “Inspect her pack.”
The dagger. Would he think it a weapon she meant to turn on one of his own? Panic rising, she reminded herself he acted for Cyr. He would not like what he found, but he would do no more than take it from her.
The chevalier loosed her, stepped back, and in his language said, “Give it to me, Lady.”
He thought her a lady. She would not correct him, certain soon Cyr would do so. Until then, perhaps he would treat her with some respect.
As she passed the pack to him, she caught the deceptively pretty ring of a great number of chain mail links. Ignoring it, she let her mind travel down the road she had not fully ventured upon.
She was as much a prisoner as those taken on the night past. Would she be held with the rebels, some of whom—if not all—would believe she had betrayed again?
Nay, no matter the anger of the man now given proof she aided his enemies, no matter he believed he had been merciful for naught, she did not think he would do that. As for her grandmother, neither would he harm her even had Aelfled refused to leave the abbey. And he had known she would not refuse, that he had only to take Bernia from Ravven to bend her to his will.
The chevalier gave a grunt of satisfaction, stepped to his commander, and handed up the bundle from which the dagger’s hilt projected. “She is armed. And well.”
Seeing the hand reaching for it falter, Aelfled looked higher. And shuddered.
The one sent by Cyr had lowered his coif. Though his short hair was surely all the more dark for the perspiration shaping it to his head, amid the black were silver strands that had no right to sprout in such abundance from the head of one so young.
Another D’Argent. And the eyes he slammed to hers revealed which one.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stern Castle
England
I have her,” Cyr murmured, and knew it was not the first time he boasted of that to the man at his side, the first instance after the old woman who this day served as bait revealed where he would find her granddaughter.
With what sounded a smile, Fulbert said, “Else she has you.”
Cyr looked from the riders approaching the drawbridge to the priest.
The man shrugged. “You sound more pleased this time. And I thought you rather pleased then.”
“She aided the rebels—is the reason time and again they slipped free of Theriot and Campagnon. This ensures she can be of no further use to their cause.”
Fulbert chuckled. “Non, last eve ensured that. As well you know, this is protection.”
He did know, having first discussed it with Fulbert. Turning defensive only made him sound a youth.
“And methinks it something else more bothersome,” Fulbert added.
Cyr returned his gaze to Aelfled whose hood would soon cover her head. Even at a distance she was lovely beyond the blond tresses his fingers refused to forget. “Oui,” he admitted, having asked for prayer to aid in overcoming what he named lust though Fulbert submitted it was more serious—albeit more pure.
Cyr turned from the land before the castle to the wooden railing overlooking the outer bailey and considered the paddock holding Merle and his men and the one opposite. The hands of the rebels were bound behind their backs where they sat against the wall, excepting those of four who hunkered over bowls and cups. Once hunger and thirst were satisfied, they would be bound again and another four loosed, among them Vitalis to whom Cyr intended to grant an audience.
“You have determined how best to make use of them?” Fulbert asked.
“If my cousin does not soon return to William’s service, I shall have my own men deliver Merle and his fellow mercenaries to the king to decide their fate. As for the rebels, regardless of whether they can be made to reveal their own to sooner end the rebellion, my greatest use of them is recovering Guarin, alive or dead. And lest William does not agree with me, it must be done quickly.”
“Then in addition to praying for an easing of lust, we must pray the king is in a forgiving mood should he not agree.”
Cyr smiled wryly and returned to the wall.
He frowned. Maël and his party were near enough for him to act on the instructions given him. Why had he not? Surely he had not forgotten?
As his cousin neared the drawbridge, Cyr noted how dark his face, hard his jaw, unmoving his gaze. Such depth of anger he had last seen on Maël’s face the day before the great battle. Just as Cyr had never learned its cause, he did not know it now.
“D’Argent!” he bellowed.
Even had the coif now made a collar covered Maël’s head, he would have heard, but he did not respond.
Cyr moved his gaze over the men just behind and on either side of his cousin. Their eyes were on him—as were those of the women who shared their saddles. Though one stared sightlessly at Cyr upon the wall, the younger woman saw him well as evidenced by a defiant expression surely masking fear.
But if Maël did not do as told, that mask would slip. And in this instance, Cyr wished it firmly in place.
What Maël would not order for whatever godforsaken reason, his chevaliers did as they guided their mounts over the drawbridge, drawing the hoods up over the heads of their charges.
“Something has gone afoul,” Fulbert said.
Had the body of Cyr’s man-at-arms been found in the wood? The murder of a Norman would anger Maël, but this seemed too much like the day ere the great battle, seemed too… Personal?
When Maël passed beneath the portcullis into the bailey, Cyr strode to the steps. As he began his descent, he looked to those entering and knew the moment Aelfled saw the rebels in the western paddock. Head turned that direction, she startled, and he hoped her hood cast enough shadow to conceal her face. But had it, she rendered it useless in sweeping it back as her mount drew level with the paddock.
A murmur rose from the Saxons, and Cyr was a half dozen steps up from the bailey when he saw one of those unbound rise from the wall and draw back an arm.
“Get her away!” Cyr shouted at the same moment another shout sounded from the paddock.
But the stone flew, and no sound did Aelfled make as it knocked her head to the side and slumped her over the arm fastened around her waist.
Bloodlust. It poured into Cyr as he jumped the last steps to the ground and drew his sword.
Bloodlust. It thrummed through his veins as he lunged toward the paddock whose bound prisoners gained their feet.
Bloodlust. It carried him over the fence and set him at the one toward whom the other rebels moved as if to defend him.
Bloodlust. It blinded him to the one who called his name and wrenched hold of his sword arm—the same who took an elbow to the jaw but did not let go, not even when others arrived and aided in dragging their lord to the fence and holding him to it.
“Cyr!” Theriot shouted as his other men surged toward the amassed rebels with swords and daggers drawn.
Though beyond his brother Cyr saw the biggest of the rebels—Vitalis—taken down first, the warrior continued to struggle and curse those depriving him of vengeance.
“Cyr!” It was Fulbert’s voice at his back, his hand gripping his friend’s shoulder.
More than the efforts of Theriot and his men-at-arms, that was the beginning of the end of Cyr’s struggle. Bloodlust ebbing, knots in mind and body easing, he began to return to a semblance of the man beaten into a different shape between Senlac and his return to England.
He knew the transformation showed when Theriot released him, stepped back, and commanded the others to do the same.
As the men cautiously complied, Theriot shifted his jaw that had first been bruised by Dougray and would be further bruised by Cyr. “I understand your anger,” he said, “but not your actions. Though I do not doubt many a rebel life would have been lost beneath your blade, their greater numbers would have seen you severely injured if not slain ere we could beat them back.”
Cyr straightened from the fence and felt Fulbert’s hand on his shoulder lift. “The enemy did not slay me upon Senlac. And those who came nearest to doing so were not bound nor weaponless.”
“That is as true as it is that you wore mail and helmet and had others at your sides and back.” Theriot raised his eyebrows. “More, you fought for William, fellow countrymen, land, and your life—not over the casting of a stone at one of the rebels’ own.”
“A woman!” Cyr said, then seeing again the moment Aelfled was struck by the stone, looked across his shoulder at where Maël and his men had drawn rein before the inner gate.
Several had dismounted and were yielding their horses to stable lads, though not the one who held Aelfled, his back to Cyr shielding her from view.
To the right, Bernia stood small alongside the man with whom she had shared a saddle, her hand gripping his arm. Though anxiety pitched her voice high, the only sense Cyr could make of her words was her granddaughter’s name.
Movement returned his regard to the chevalier given charge of Aelfled, and he saw the man dismount. She was conscious, as evidenced by her partially upright posture, and when the man reached to her, she pushed his hand away.
Cyr looked to Theriot. “You saw the one who cast the stone?”
“Oui.”
“He requires special treatment.”
His brother inclined his head.
Cyr shoved into the scabbard the sword he had kept hold of, climbed the fence, nodded at Fulbert, and strode forward.
Behind, above the gruff, angry voices of men-at-arms separating the rebels and issuing commands, rose the sound of clapping. Cyr did not look around, not even when Merle called, “Might the baron be a lover of Saxon women?”
Catching Maël’s eye as he neared, Cyr saw much of his cousin’s anger had abated, though not such that he looked remorseful. Likely, Aelfled would have lowered her hood even had the king’s man been the one to order the women covered. But he had explaining to do.
“Out of the way!” Cyr thrust aside the chevalier whose tone told he sought to coax Aelfled down, stepped into his place, and peered up at her where she held to the pommel with one hand, the horse’s mane with the other. Though she remained upright, her chin was down, head turned opposite, blond hair curtaining her face streaked red.
Subduing the impulse to drag her down, he set a hand on her knee. “It is Cyr. Come down.”
She quaked. “I need a moment.”
“Aelfled!” her grandmother called from the other side of the destrier. “What has happened?”
“I…my stomach is unsettled. That is all.”
“I have ears, Child. Where were you struck?”
“’Tis a small cut. I am nearly ready to…dismount.”
“Cyr of the silver hair,” the woman said imperiously, “I entrusted you with the safety of my granddaughter.”
So she had told that day in Ravven. And so he had sought to do since—though not necessarily for her.
“Do not fail me further. Aid her.”
Though she offended, especially in the presence of men who would question their lord taking orders from a Saxon woman, Cyr moved his hand to her granddaughter’s arm beneath her mantle that hung askew. “Turn to me, Aelfled. I shall lift you down.”
She drew her arm tight to her side. “I need not be carried.”
“I will set you on your feet.”
She remained tense.
“My word I give. I would but aid you in gaining the ground.”
He heard her swallow, then she shifted around. When he saw what was revealed, he clenched his fingers into a ball of ache to keep bloodlust from resurfacing.
The stone had struck hard, its edge surely jagged. Past the fall of her hair and too much blood, a gash ran from the corner of her left eye and angled to the center of her temple. Hopefully, the worst she would suffer was a scar since such a blow could permanently damage one’s mind. And some killed.
Cyr slid his hands inside her mantle, gently gripped her waist, and when she released pommel and mane, pulled her down.
She sought to keep her head up, but it fell onto his shoulder as her trembling body sank against his.
“You have her?” the old woman demanded.
“I have her, Bernia.”
“Do not set her down.”
“I will not, Bernia.”
Aelfled lifted her head, and her dark eyes flickered. “You…gave your word.”
“I lied.” He settled one arm across her upper back, slid the other beneath her knees, and raised her against his chest.
All the ill felt toward her on the night past slipping away, he peered into her face. And nearly cursed when he saw the true extent of her injury. Stitches would be required. “I did not want this, Aelfled. You should have stayed under your hood.”
Her lowering lids lifted. “I am one of them. Will not hide as though…I betrayed last eve.
” She frowned, lifted a hand toward his jaw she had scratched, in the next instant gripped the neck of his tunic and gasped, “Do not drop me!”
“Of course I will not.”
“Be still.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “Pray, s-stop turning.”
Not caring if she spewed on him as narrowly avoided last eve, he clasped her close and strode past the others up the walk, acknowledging tight-mouthed Maël with a nod and one word. “Soon.”
A quarter hour later, his aunt ushered him out of the small chamber abovestairs in which she and Nicola slept and upon whose bed he had laid the barely conscious Aelfled and seen her grandmother settled in a chair beside her.
Though Chanson was accomplished in stitching flesh as done for the boys and young men injured while training under her husband and the chevaliers who battled alongside him, Cyr turned as the door started to close behind him.
“As little scarring as possible, Aunt. The fewer reminders of this day, the better.”
She frowned, then seated the door.
Now to find Maël.
“I told you I would not have them displayed like spoils of war, that when you brought them into Stern their heads were to be covered.”
Maël, having cleared the great hall in anticipation of answering for his breach of trust, remained unmoving where he stood with a shoulder to the doorframe looking out across the land. Fertile land. Once Saxon land. Now Norman land.
“What were you thinking?” Cyr demanded as he closed the distance between them.
The warrior who had yet to remove mail tunic and coif drew a breath that broadened his shoulders and turned the scarred side of his face toward Cyr. “I was not thinking. I was feeling. And not of things I would wish upon you. Though if you have a great care for that Saxon wench as you make it appear, I might wish it.”
Cyr knew his cousin was not fond of the conquered, having spent months after months stamping out their rebellions, but something had moved him toward that which was more the face of Dougray. And when he halted alongside him, Maël offered an explanation by way of the dagger he raised from his side.